


the water's high, you're jumping into it

by cascadeoceanwave



Series: cowboy like me - jaylor lavender marriage one shots [4]
Category: Taylor Swift (Musician)
Genre: Angst, Eating Disorders, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mother-Daughter Relationship, evelyn's art of choice is dance, growing up is scary, joe is barely mentioned in this but he's silently supportive from a distance, joe is the harry cameron to taylor's evelyn hugo, toe lavender marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:35:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29079456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cascadeoceanwave/pseuds/cascadeoceanwave
Summary: Evelyn Alwyn-Swift is good at keeping secrets, but she learns that some things are better to tell.or;tied together with a smile one generation later
Relationships: Joe Alwyn & Taylor Swift
Series: cowboy like me - jaylor lavender marriage one shots [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2061351
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	the water's high, you're jumping into it

**Author's Note:**

> tw/cw for eating disorders and brief mentions of vomiting. if that's not for you, it's probably better to sit this one out!

You start dance at 7 after football becomes too much of a bore. It begins with ballet class, then spirals quickly into tap, jazz, and lyrical. You become a studio regular, and a year later you find yourself on a competition team. You suppose it makes sense, considering the creative energies of both of your parents. You participate in school plays, never good enough to make the lead, but too good for the ensemble. Mom makes you start piano lessons early, and you’re alright at that, too. You play trumpet and sing in chorus in school, but you’re not spectacular at either of them. You’ve been skateboarding since you were five and Uncle Pat bought you a penny board for Christmas. You can ollie, but you’ve never quite managed a kickflip. 

Dance is the same -- you’re smack in the middle of your team when it comes to skill level. What you lack in technique and flexibility, you make up for in expression and strength. You don’t mind always coming in second. You know that, if you put in the extra hours, you could bridge the gap between good and great, but that would mean giving up something else. And you love too many things to do that. Your parents don’t mind either, which probably helps. They’re never anything less than supportive of your hobbies, always pushing you when you need it, and encouraging you to try new things. 

By the time you start secondary school though, dance has sort of become your  _ thing.  _ Your favorites are hip hop and contemporary, but you honestly love anything that allows you to move your body and get lost in the music. Eleven and twelve are hard years for you. Puberty hits you like a truck, but instead of gifting you with boobs and sex appeal, it gives you a chubby phase and a lot more insecurities. Dancing is one of the only things that takes you out of your head--concentrating on choreography and technique lets you be in the moment and feel connected to yourself.

You try to count your blessings because your parents have drilled it into your head to be grateful. Your dance team gives you a solid group of friends. Even when your school friends drift away because of different classes or first boyfriends, you know can count on the girls at your studio to be there for you.

It’s a Friday night and you’re sleeping over at Freya’s house with some of your other teammates. She lives a ten minute walk away from the studio, and it’s not uncommon for you to stay at her house before your Saturday ballet class. The six of you spend the night playing Xbox and choreographing dances to your favorite pop songs. Freya’s mom sets out pizza dough and you each cover your own in toppings of choice, which sparks an impassioned debate about whether pineapple and sardines should belong in the mix (you think yes to the first, no to the second). When you finally tire yourselves out, you snuggle into sleeping bags on couches and blow up mattresses in her living room. The latest Netflix romcom plays on TV, and you half-pay attention while swapping stories about your crushes and the rumors you heard about what so-and-so did in science class.

You slip away to the bathroom to change into your pajamas, and you’re so lost in thought about Kristi’s crush on some idiot football player that you don’t notice that the bathroom light is glowing underneath the door. You yank open the door. It takes a second for your brain to process what’s happening. Lucy’s kneeling on the tile, puking her guts out. 

Lucy’s all hot pink and boy crazy, the type of girly girl you’re both in awe and jealous of. The two of you are the expert choreographers of the group, taking charge when you’re making up dances for fun like tonight. She’s kind, but can be a little bossy, so you usually just end up surrendering to her ideas. You’ve learned by now that some battles aren’t worth the fight. You’re not the closest of friends--you rarely hang out alone--but you still care about her a lot.

“Sorry, I-I didn’t know you were in here,” you stammer out, “Are you okay? Are you sick? Do you want me to get Ms. Collins?”

She shakes her head angrily. “I’m fine. Go away!” she half-shouts at you. You meet her eyes and you know, deep down, that she isn’t. That this was  _ on purpose _ .

“Sorry,” you say again, reaching for the doorknob.

“Don’t tell anyone about this, okay?” she asks. Her voice is quieter now, scared even. “I promise you don’t have to worry about me.”

“Of course not,” you say.

Your racing mind doesn’t let you fall asleep until around four in the morning.

<><><>

You’re good at keeping secrets. With your family, you kind of have to be. Ever since you were little, Mom and Dad have drilled into you the difference between Big and small secrets. Small secrets are things like cousin Jackson’s surprise birthday party, or what you’re getting for your birthday. Big secrets are things like Mom’s new album or Dad’s new movie. Those are the ones that you can talk about eventually. Some Big secrets you can’t talk about at all, except for with the people that know already. Secrets like why auntie Selena was in the hospital when you were nine, and that your parents aren’t really together.

That one you learned recently. Well, kind of. Your parents always try to be open with you, and answered any questions you asked. You can’t remember a time when you didn’t know that they loved each other in a, “best friend way, not a boyfriend-girlfriend way.” They’d told you more as you got older, and always answered questions when you asked. When you were eleven, you’d asked for the entire truth and they gave it to you. Mom had cried, of course, but Dad did too, and that’s how you knew it was serious.

You still don’t quite understand why they made the choices they did, and it hurts to think that if the world was fair, if they could’ve lived their truth, you wouldn’t exist. No matter how much they assure you that they love being your parents and wouldn’t trade their life for anything, you know they will always be plagued with regrets and what-ifs. 

Regardless, you’re so grateful for your family. You wouldn’t trade any of its quirks or unconventional makeup for anything--not Lucy’s parents always on the cusp of divorce, or Jane’s who yell at her to the point of tears almost every day. Mom and Dad give you unconditional love and respect, always. Plus, it  _ is _ nice to know you’ll never walk in on them having sex.

So, yeah, you’re pretty good at keeping secrets.

You carry Lucy’s for months. Each day, the burden becomes a little harder to bear. You know what an eating disorder is, you learned about them in health class, and you know that what she’s doing isn’t exactly healthy. But you also know that if you told, she would never speak to you again. Besides, she keeps assuring you every time you ask that she’s fine, she knows what she’s doing, she’s not sick. 

You carry it past your thirteenth birthday and through your dance practices where you find her pinching her thighs disapprovingly in the mirror backstage. Sometimes, a part of you that you hate is filled with anger and jealousy at her--after all, she’s so much skinnier and prettier than you, and if she thinks she’s ugly, what does that make you? But you push those thoughts way down, down, down and let them ferment in the pit of your stomach, which always seems to hurt lately. 

Mom has been worried about you, you can tell. Life right now feels like you’re standing on the precipice of adulthood. The darkness of the real world yawns open beneath you, but you can’t bring yourself to step off the edge.

You carry it almost until the holidays, when you find her throwing up again in the studio bathroom. “Don’t tell anyone,” she makes you promise again through tears. 

“I won’t,” you say, and you feel cold guilt settle in your stomach because you know it’s a lie. 

Jaedyn’s mom drops you off at home, and you find Mom curled up on the couch with a book. “Hi, honey, how was dance?” she asks, eyes still trained on the pages. You kick off your shoes and drop your bag in the middle of the floor, which catches her attention because she hates when you leave it there. “Everything okay?” You can’t meet her eyes. “Evie.”

You pad softly across the room and curl up on the couch next to her. She puts a bookmark in her book and pulls you into her arms. “What’s wrong, peanut?” The nickname stirs something inside of you, and you know you’re cracking under the weight of this.

“Mom,” you say, and your voice cracks.

“I’m right here, baby,” she whispers into your hair. You can tell she’s trying hard to keep calm because you so rarely break down like this.

“Mom, I’m really worried about Lucy,” you say, and the dam breaks. Though your tears, you haltingly tell her everything, begging her to keep it a secret. 

She’s quiet for a moment, and then says gently, “Baby, I think you know I have to tell her parents.”

“No!” you gasp, “No, you can’t! She made me promise to keep it a secret and I didn’t and she’s going to be so angry and never s-speak to me again!”

“Evelyn,” Mom interrupts your tirade. “You did nothing wrong. You did the right thing by telling me. I know it’s scary and you’re scared of losing her, but Lucy is sick and she needs help. I promise even if she’s upset at first, she’ll eventually understand that you did this out of love.”

“You can’t say that! You don’t know her! She’s going to hate me and everyone is going to take her side and I’m not going to have anyone…”

“Oh my goodness, honey,” Mom says, and you realize there are tears in her eyes. “My love, I promise you that’s not going to happen.”

“You don’t  _ know _ that,” you whisper, angrily. 

“Believe me, baby, I do. I…” she takes a deep breath, “I’ve been in Lucy’s position before.” You look up at her, and now she’s the one who can’t meet your eyes. She pauses for a minute and you watch her struggle inside her head before she speaks. “When I was younger, I had an eating disorder. I was really sick for a long time, and a lot of people tried to get me to see that what I was doing wasn’t healthy. Uncle Austin and Auntie Abigail sat me down several times and tried to get me to stop starving myself. But when you’re sick like that, your brain convinces you that what you’re doing is normal. So, yeah, I was angry at them at the time, but when I started getting better, I realized that they were just trying to help me. So, you’re right, Lucy might be angry at first. But, down the line, she’ll understand that you were just being a good friend and looking out for her.”

“Mom, I didn’t know…”

“It’s okay, baby. It was a long time ago. It’s not anything you have to worry about. I’m really proud that you told me, and I’m so sorry that you have to see your friend in so much pain.”

You lean into her and close your eyes, letting her gently play with your hair for a while. The world feels a lot lighter. You’re so glad you told her.

“You’re better now, right?” you whisper when you feel brave enough to.

“I’m better now,” Mom smiles. “I won’t lie to you and say that I never feel insecure about my body or feel guilty about something I’ve eaten. But I haven’t acted on those feelings in years, and I doubt I will again.” She pauses. “I know how easy it is to feel like you need to change things about yourself or your body, especially right now when it’s changing. So if you’re ever feeling that way, I will  _ always _ be here to talk to you about it, okay?”

You nod. “Okay.”

The two of you make hot chocolate and watch a reality show until Dad gets home. After dinner, you go to your bedroom to do homework and you hear the cadences of their conversation through the walls, but it’s not loud enough to make out what they’re saying. At one point, Mom’s tone switches to a more formal one, and there are pauses after everything she says, so you know she’s calling Lucy’s mom on the phone. You’ve tossed yours on your bed, too scared to look at it. You just want her to get better.

Eventually, you give up trying to concentrate on your maths homework. You tie your hair up and head downstairs to the exercise room in the basement. You plug your phone into the speakers and play your routine music. The bass booms in your chest and you try to let yourself move without nitpicking too much. Once the routine ends, you open Spotify and shuffle your “fave songs <3” playlist. You let the music guide you as you improv, and your mind finally clears. All you’re thinking about is the here and now. You catch your eye in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors and can’t help but giggle, which echoes over the slow song playing. And, for a moment, you don’t have to focus on the way you look in your sweats. You can just be at home in your body without worrying about what it looks like. You wonder if Mom has ever felt this freedom. You wonder if Lucy ever will.

You hope so.


End file.
